


The Pit

by LunaCanisLupus_22



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Basically everybody is a BAMF, Battle Arena, But a family business, Derek has a thing for Stiles talking, Derek is practically mute, F/M, Human/Animal violence, M/M, Stiles has a voice like sex, Stiles is a BAMF, Stiles is on a quest to learn Derek's real name, Werewolf death matches, Werewolf gladiator types, werewolf fighting is a sketchy business
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:38:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaCanisLupus_22/pseuds/LunaCanisLupus_22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Derek fights other werewolves to death in an underground werewolf fighting Arena and Stiles is the Master of Ceremonies</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pit

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me where this came from. Or why it's here (though werewolves fighting in the pit idea was inspired by Sparatacus) I honestly have no idea what this is. Or if its more than just a one shot. This was just an idea rattling around in my head that I set free
> 
> Enjoy!

# The Pit

#    


The sharp tang of blood and sweat intermingle with the ripe scent emanating from the humans crowding the stands, slashing and shrieking their encouragement down into the pit below.

It overwhelms him every time that scent, swirling around the air he breathes, and the circling wolf only metres away like a hazy vapour that he can’t quite distinguish, sinking into every pore of his skin. It’s mostly excitement, fettered by the impatient interval between matches, but he doesn’t need heightened senses to see that, any human walking into the arena can already feel it in the steady hum of displeasure in the stands.

Their need for gratuitous violence never ceases to amaze him, and he isn’t one to deny the crowd what they so sorely desire. Even if he can taste their bloodlust on his tongue as the wolf circles several metres away, head bowed, confused and frightened as the sights and sounds overwhelm it.

The twinge of pity slides through him before he manages to push the feeling away using the noises of the crowd to centre him. He tries to separate the cacophony of sounds into discernible words, and the distraction is welcome in the chaos.

They’re already bursting for the ripping of claws and the gnashing of teeth, but they know as well as he does, that they have to wait until the Master of Ceremony emerges.

And when he does, it’s a struggle between willpower and instinct not to look at him. He keeps his head bowed as a precaution, feeling the very vibration of the man’s steps as he strides towards the platform near the edge of the pit, purpose and action concealing the jerking movements of his boundless energy.

He looks at the ground determinedly, as if his gaze could burn through the dirt that his claws will be digging into in no time at all, and tries his best to keep his shoulders relaxed and confident as the MC reaches for the microphone, utterly oblivious of the wolves in the pit along with him.

The Master of Ceremonies overconfidence is foolish but admirable, and he knows that the wolf scratching its claws against the concrete that covers the pit walls is too maddened by its own fear to take it out on the man standing at the podium.

And MC knows that the alpha werewolf standing only metres away, head bowed as if in silent prayer would never dare to try to harm him. The man’s recklessness is dangerously naïve, but in this instance he is safer here in the pit with the werewolf who is refusing to look at him than the crowd above them screaming for blood.

The werewolf doesn’t know the man’s real name, but he goes by the abbreviation MC and is as responsible for stirring the crowd to near insanity as he is by providing the violent live entertainment.

The Master of Ceremonies has this presence about him that makes him impossible to ignore, but the alpha keeps up his charade of indifference watching the helpless wolf as its claws dig into the concrete, whining softly.

His jaw is tensed and his eyes are narrowed with a helpless need to avoid what he ultimately knows is coming, and that his hands will deliver the final execution.

The crowd falls silent almost immediately, as if they can sense the commanding power of this approaching man, and his eyes flicker upwards instinctively wishing he could see the MC’s face instead of the back of his buzz cut hair and his tall and lean form that straightens almost in greeting of the hundreds of angry eyes turning towards him.

And then he opens his mouth.

It maddening when the Master Of Ceremonies speaks. He had this voice smooth as honey that slips over the alpha like a second skin, shuddering through his ribs and vibrating tantalising in his sensitive ears when he starts to talk. He both lives for his voice and despises its allure when it is so very distracting at times that he needs to focus. Or die. In the pit there are no second chances. At least not for him.

“Simmer down there, folks,” the Master of Ceremonies drawls out in an almost indecent tone. He struggles to keep his head at the sound because it does something to him, makes him wilder than he is, and just as reckless. “Damn, that’s a lot of attitude for one location. But you can put away your pitchforks because the event of the evening is finally here you impatient, sons of bitches.”

The MC controls the crowd like the alpha can control other wolves with a sharp glance, like a puppeteer plucking strings and the man often says whatever he pleases, the crowd licking at his feet regardless. The werewolf licking at his feet just as eagerly.

Even the grey wolf senses the power of MC’s words, pausing the soft padding of its paws across the dirt as it paces to turn its snout towards him. If the alpha wasn’t in the pit he would join the crowd just to watch MC speak. His eyes stray to the back of the man again and as if MC senses it he turns in his direction, fingers splayed and demonstrative.

“Your very own, Sourwolf,” MC says and he ducks his head, jaw tensing at the name. He used to be known only as Alpha before the name changed. The Captain told him once that MC came up with the new nickname himself, and each time he hears the sound leave MC’s lips a thrill of emotion twists its way into his chest.

He tilts his head up in acknowledgement to the crowd, because it’s the only name he goes by in this place now, and it’s the only name he’s wiling to know. Nobody ever asks for his real name, and he wouldn’t give it if they did.

“Against a freshly caught grey, alpha wolf!”

It is no alpha, but the lie rolls smoothly off MC’s tongue. He has no reason to say otherwise, and the crowd has no reason to doubt him. MC makes eye contact with the owner of the pit, Sheriff, they call him. Sheriff nods and MC makes a signal with his fingers, directs them at the alpha and gives him the go ahead.

He immediately crouches low to the ground, claws elongating, bones shifting as he finds purchase in the dirt to the screams and delight of the crowd. They love the shift, Sheriff makes sure that he does it every single time before he fights, spending hours practising and extending the length of the shift purely for the crowds entertainment in the pit, before he destroys.

But this is always the hardest part; enraging a wolf so that it will attack an alpha and fight him to the death. It’s a hard instinct to fight but not impossible to break. He just needs time to incense the wolf, and MC distracts the crowd, weaving a web of suspense, building passion with an onslaught of words while he looks straight into the wolf’s eyes.

It’s stopped scratching at the walls by now jaws open, tongue rolling uselessly as it scents the air, neck bent in submission to his will.

If he was a beta like The Captain or Pup, then the wolf would be quicker to attack. It’s become a problem for him in the pit, but Sheriff knows how to run an Arena, and how to distract a crowd whilst he preps his opponent for battle.

MC is a master of distraction, but Sheriff doesn’t know the full range of the man’s power over him. The alpha's certain that no one knows. Words flow over them, but the extra minutes are welcome. He growls low in his throat so as not to drown out MC’s announcement, but the wolf snarls back, tossing its head angrily.

There’s a brief pause from MC as he gauges if the wolf is ready, and after a jerk of his head MC rings the bell announcing the match, and the crowd is already out of their seats screaming for blood.

It’s quick, but if he’d had his way it would be much quicker, the theatrics of the match prolonging the animal’s suffering for longer than he would have wished. But the way MC talks, graphically describing each slash of his claws into tufts of fur already matted with dirt and sweat, each individual droplet of blood spattering the ground he feels as if he’s watching an entirely different fight.

The crowd lives for his words, MC’s importance almost outweighing the alpha slashing the grey wolf’s throat in the pit below. The MC draws them into the violence, into the bloodshed, soaking their lust, wetting their tongues with the blood of senseless creatures.

He is not senseless. The alpha feels every whimper of the quickly dying animal after he tears out its throat, having already wounded it beyond survival, each slash of his claws ripping into the animal’s weakened body.

They struggle. They always do. Wolves have as much prides as human do before they’re forced to retreat and lick their wounds clean. But this wolf will do no such thing. Guilt is raw at the back of his mind, drowned in the violence of his senses, the complete descent into animal instinct as he revels in the taste of its fear, in the sweetness of its blood.

He is more animal than the wolf, but this is what the crowd wants and he gifts them with a furious and almost rabid slaughter. The crowd screams, a rattling attack of vocal satisfaction that echoes in his ears and stabs into his skull.

And then MC announces the end of the butchery, and he lowers his head again remaining in a low crouch in the centre of the pit just like Sheriff wants him to for a visually appealing and dramatic effect. It’s their final showcase of the wild wolfman they house in the pit and he slides into the role easily wearing it like a shield.

For now he is the animal. And that is all the crowd expects of him. He ignores the feel of MC’s eyes and digs his claws into the dirt, cleaning away the blood and helping him resist raising his head to make eye contact.

But still he feels the man’s eyes upon him and aches.  
  
  
  


He is led back to his quarters followed only by two men, MC and a guard whose neck he could snap without blinking, but doesn't. He won't look up past the movement of his feet, steps memorised on this walk of shame, triumphant in the senseless violence of the quickly emptying pit. The alpha is always the last fight because he’s been fighting in the pit the longest and is the crowd favourite, Sheriff is nothing if a clever businessman.

“Not bad at all, Sourwolf,” MC says the sway of his hips, distracting his walk of solitude as he saunters dangerously, temptingly close. He isn’t usually this reckless about his proximity, Sheriff has a rule about standing too close to his fighters after the last MC had his throat ripped out, but this MC is smiling mischievously.

It’s that smile that the alpha thinks about whenever he is alone.

He doesn’t answer, as is habit, and expected of him after years of stony silence, and MC continues the conversation without him, as is his habit of letting words roll effortlessly off his tongue.

Sheriff lets him have his own quarters because he’s killed other werewolves before, and everyone who fights for Sheriff knows he likes to be alone almost as much as he likes to kill. The Captain and Pup are in the quarters next door, and they talk to him through the bars on occasion knowing he won’t answer, but that he still likes to listen.

“How’d you go Sourwolf?” Pup asks unnecessarily after he makes it back to his room. “Did you give them a good show?”

He rolls his shoulders, to stretch his muscles but doesn't answer. 

“I can’t believe that little bastard bit me,” The Captain snarls out and the alpha can remember the first time he arrived here, in bloodied tatters, soaked to the bone from the rain, eyes red from crying. He’d whispered his name was Jackson before they’d renamed him The Captain once his need to be in control of everything had asserted itself. It's a fitting name.

Pup’s been there almost as long as the alpha has. But he can no longer remember Pup's name anymore, and his own real name feels like a distant memory. And like the rest of the werewolves in Sheriff’s pit they’ve slowly become their alter-egos, pasts washed completely away for a bloodier future.

He slides down against the wall, and listens to them both describe their own matches, voices preventing him from drifting within himself again.

The pit is a completely legal, albeit sketchy fighting Arena, werewolf fighting a popular sport that had emerged since The Discovery. Each werewolf fighter in Sheriff’s arena was there of their own volition and they were paid for their trouble. The alpha was the only one who didn't care about the money, didn't need it. He had enough money to never fight again but that's not what he wanted. He liked his life in the pit, it was simple, easy.

The werewolf fighters could leave whenever, but if they were going to stay and fight, that meant sleeping in Pit Quarters. It was a Sheriff law after one of the werewolves had been killed outside of the Arena. The more popular a werewolf fighter was the less likely their chances of going outside without being recognised and attacked or forced to fight.

Not all of the fights in the pit are death matches, some werewolves are pitted against each other to fight, not kill. Only the alpha, as the draw of the arena is guaranteed a death match every single time he steps back out into the pit and he takes on the grim responsibility and burden of judge and executioner onto his shoulders without complaint.

It's the price for this life and he will pay it willingly.

The door to his quarter’s slide open and in walks MC. His gaze immediately drops, but the confusion on his face has already registered as the smell of the man assaults his senses. The alpha run his tongue over his teeth automatically to be certain of his control.

But then MC opens his mouth. “Sourwolf,” he says. “Sheriff wants you for a minute.”

He nods and climbs to his feet, avoiding eye contact as Pup suddenly shouts. “MC, you’ve gotta stop telling ‘em I’ve got puppy dog eyes. You’re ruining my rep!”

MC only grins. “Sorry Pup,” he yells back, banging a fist against the wall in friendly greeting. “But I call them like I see them, and those are some seriously adorable brown eyes.”

The Captain starts laughing whilst Pup whines low in his throat, and MC beckons the alpha with his finger. He follows without a word, straining to keep a respectable distance between them as his eyes instantly fall to the floor.

“No need to panic,” MC reassures him despite knowing he’s moving as confidently as he does within the pit. The alpha stares at his expressive eyes and blinks at him having difficulty focusing at the sound of MC’s voice. “Sheriff just wants a favour.”

He remains silent and MC reaches out and slaps the taut muscle of his shoulder. He stiffens instantly but doesn’t react further than that at MC’s unusual boldness. He is in higher spirits, the alpha can smell the sweat of excitement bleeding out of his skin and the slightly elevated beating of MC’s heart which speaks volumes. Something good is happening for him.

His mouth runs dry and he resists the urge to pull the man into his arms and lap at his bare skin. MC boldly leads him into Sheriff’s office, reaching around his body, extraordinarily close to shut the door behind them. MC smirks at his expression before the alpha looks away, swallowing heavily.

The red haired woman who does the book keeping and everyone calls Princess, emerges from behind Sheriff, and breezes past them exiting out the door with a perfectly raised eyebrow, but no comment and the alpha nearly chokes on the overpowering scent of The Captain all over her, as her curls bounce off of her pale shoulders.

“Ah, Sourwolf,” Sheriff says in greeting clearly unaware that Princess is clearly fraternising with one of his werewolf fighters. “Got a fresh for you.”

He leads him into another door connecting to his office, ignoring MC as he darts between them with a wild laugh. But the werewolf in the room doesn’t wait for introduction.

He leaps forward with a crazed snarl having broken through his restraints, reaching Sheriff first and hitting him squarely in the jaw with enough force to knock him out. MC lets out a surprised sound as Sheriff drops like a stone before the werewolf goes directly for him.

He can smell the werewolf bloodlust, feels the rage coiling within the curly haired man as he launches forward, claws extended and jaws wide.

The alpha snaps, and moves instinctively, catching the werewolf mid air with his own snarl of fury, claws extended and digging into the flesh of the werewolf’s tattered shirt, preventing him from getting anywhere near MC.

He roars in reply, slamming the werewolf onto his back with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. The werewolf whimpers, accepting the alpha’s will, transforming into a weaker, helpless thing that cowers on the floor beneath him.

Satisfied the alpha turns his back on the creature, eyes falling on MC hovering over the Sheriff’s unconscious body. The man is bleeding from a split lip but he smells fine, alive. The heart beat is steady. But MC’s is not.

“Oh Jesus,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck. Dad? Dad can you hear me?”

The alpha stills at the words. Dad. Sheriff is MC’s father? He sniffs at the air as a precaution, sensing the similarities between scents and realises what he should have noticed months ago. Father and son.

MC’s heart is thrumming wildly in his chest and the alpha cocks his head to listen to the beat of it, while MC checks Sheriff’s pulse, words spilling quickly from his lips. “Oh my God I should call an ambulance. I can’t feel a pulse,” he cries. “Dad?”

The alpha crouches down without a word, seizing MC’s fingers and placing them higher to where Sheriff’s pulse point actually is located. He hears the stutter in his heart beat, as well as the spike of emotion from the touch and quickly withdraws, not looking at him.

“Sourwolf,” MC garbles out. “I mean alpha. Wolfman? Uh- what’s your name exactly?”

The alpha just looks at him and says nothing, though for a moment though his lips part as if he was about to speak. He stares at MC’s white face instead.

“Right, silence, gotcha,” he says quickly. “Uh, thank you, for you know- that. I really was under the impression you hated me, but I guess not enough to see me dead right? Or is it because I’m Sheriff’s son? No, you don’t seem like a kiss ass.”

Sheriff's eyes flutter open as he slips back into consciousness. “What- the hell?” he groans touching his own jaw dazedly.

“Dad,” MC groans out in relief, hovering over him again. “The fresh werewolf got a bit friendly. I don’t think you’ve got a concussion, nothing a little brandy won’t fix.”

Sheriff blinks through his confusion, sitting up slowly and spotting the cowering werewolf in the corner of the room and the alpha still standing protectively over MC’s shoulder. “What?” he repeats groggily.

“Uh, alpha man kind of kicked his ass and saved mine so I’m thinking we can progress to a first name basis.”

Sheriff frowns. “Wait a minute-”

But MC has already turned back to face him, eyes glinting with a spark of mischief. “Thank you for literally saving my ass. So, no more of that Master of Ceremony or MC crap.”

He climbs to his feet, extending a hand. “I’m Stiles.”

The alpha doesn’t think he can handle that level of contact, so he jerks his head in acknowledgement staring pointedly at the hand until the man withdraws it with a shrug of bemusement at his intense expression.

Sheriff sighs at his son from his position on the floor. "Stiles the point of this business is that you keep as much personal information to yourself. And even if I’ve worked with Sourwolf for years and trust him indisputably, you still don’t mention that you’re the son of the owner and give him your goddamn name.”

Stiles shrugs, but he smiles easily at the alpha and shows no instance of regret or hesitation.

The alpha’s heart pumps duly in his chest as he watches the man pull Sheriff back up to his feet. He can smell the relief all over him, and it makes his breathing even out and the shift recede.

And then he starts to contemplate what the hell a Stiles is.  
  
  
  


The Master of Ceremonies, also known as Stiles, announces the fresh is to be known as The Fugitive from then on at the food tables the next day after morning training and when the alpha spots him the curly haired kid looks cleaner and more in control of the fear lurking within him. Pup takes The Fugitive under his wing almost immediately, whilst Enigma and The Captain steal food from his plate with Princess perched comfortably in his lap.

Enigma hasn’t been around for very long. He’s almost as silent as the alpha, brooding and thoughtful not quick to rush into action or words. He’s withdrawn and highly secretive. The crowd likes the mystery of his character and his unknown ethnicity. Enigma arrived a month ago with another, a female, Blondie, their very first female werewolf in the pit.

She’s more vicious than friendly, more unforgiving than spiteful, and she’s as much a crowd favourite as he is, because they love a woman in the pit as much as an alpha. Stiles’ seems to always get a kick out of her fighting form which the alpha always listens to him describe with explicit detail during the wait for his own match. He listens to Stiles commentating on every single match, because he cannot resist the sound of his voice.

Blondie takes a seat beside him at the table, interrupting his seclusion.

“Hey Sourwolf,” she says gruffly. “Got anything to say about saving MC last night?”

Stiles. He nearly speaks the name. Instead, he shrugs and tears into the meat strips on his plate. She sighs, and flicks her hair.

“I didn’t take you for the rescuing type,” she notes with suspicion and he avoids her eyes, chewing soundlessly, breathing steady..

“But I guess I like him better than the one we lost a couple weeks ago,” she admits. “He just talks too damn much.”

He growls before he realises what he’s doing, and Blondie flinches away in shock at the noise. He rarely creates sound unless he’s fighting or in a bad mood, so the rest of the werewolves know when to steer clear. The alpha being vocal is very uncommon.

She scowls. “Fine. Don’t bite my head off.”

And she literally bumps into Stiles as she tries to storm away. The human staggers slightly under her strength and he growls again, low in his throat.

“Careful, Blondie,” Stiles intones, cheekily. “Human merchandise coming through.”

Blondie’s claws extend, but Stiles doesn’t sense the shift in atmosphere. “Cute,” she barks out testily.

His smile widens. “Not as cute as you.”

Stiles’ winks. The alpha accidentally dents the table. Blondie rolls her eyes and stalks away to join the table full of beta’s instead. The alpha lowers his eyes to the floor, and picks slowly at his food trying to pretend the man with the unusual name doesn't exist. Stiles.

And then Stiles takes the seat right next to him, overwhelming his senses and presses the sides of their legs together. He resists the urge to move away or move closer, and merely looks up with a bored expression.

Stiles grins and his mouth falls open invitingly, exposing his very human teeth. The alpha feels something tighten considerably in his gut and winces.

“So, I’ve decided to accept this challenge,” he says as he steals some of the meat off of his plate and pops it into his mouth. The alpha raises an eyebrow questioningly, but does nothing else besides dig his claws into the plastic of the bench and hope he can keep his hands to himself. 

Stiles is a perfect blend of smells that always disarms him when the the scent wafts by, or lingers in doorways and rooms, on clothing. It’s maddening.

“I’m going to keep guessing your name until I get it right, okay?” he says and nudges a shoulder into his own, nearly depositing him from the seat as he flinches away.

The alpha breathes through his mouth, but it doesn’t help and now he can taste Stiles’ scent and it’s much, much worse. He jerks his head in silent agreement and feels rather than sees the satisfied sigh leave Stile’s chest.

“Uh, Aidan?” he guesses and the alpha frowns in answer. He waits patiently while Stiles thinks of another, hyper aware of how close they're sitting to each other. He likes this game, likes Stiles' attention more than he should.

“José? You look like a José” he says and the alpha growls and moves along the bench, taking the tray of food with him in response. Stiles scrambles after him.

“Okay, that was half serious,” he promises. “Dylan?”

He shakes his head, and when Stiles goes to open his mouth to guess again he holds up three fingers.

“What I only get three tries?” he cries. “In between how many hours?”

He shakes his head again, pleased when Stiles’ eyes widen. “Three tries a day? That’s got to be cheating!”

Sheriff joins them at the food area, climbing onto a spare table to grab everyone’s attention. He raises an eyebrow at The Captain and Princess, but says nothing. He smells sluggish, and the alpha realises Stiles probably made him take some painkillers for his headache.

“Listen up, everybody” he yells. “Where the hell is MC?”

Stiles jumps to his feet, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “Catch you Johnny. It’s Johnny, isn’t it?”

He ignores him, resuming his previous interest with the food on his plate as he inhales the smell of meat to distract from Stile’s fresh scent clinging to the air around him.

“MC!” Sheriff yells again, and Stiles struts forward at a leisurely pace, smirking up at his father. He joins the man on the table, but not before a brief glance in the alpha’s direction. Some of the werewolves follow his gaze immediately, looking away when red eyes meet their curious ones.

“Alright, guys here’s your opponents for the next match.”

Stiles pulls out a scrap of paper, ignores his father’s glare of disapproval, and smoothes out the edges while the alpha watches hungrily as the muscles in his arms flex and shift from the movement. He then starts to read out the list of names. It doesn’t interest him until the B-show is announced. It’s The Captain versus Pup. He watches as they both glance at each other, but then The Captain smirks and slaps Pup on the back.

“You’re dead,” he grins and Pup playfully punches his shoulder whilst Princess rolls her eyes at them.

Stiles grins at them all, and looks down at the paper in his hand, expression tightening slightly and the alpha can feel the way his mouth hesitates over his next words. “And the main event won’t be a death match this week,” Stiles announces so abruptly that he looks up. Their eyes meet and desires ripples through him, jerking the air from his lungs. He quickly looks away, hunches his shoulders and resolves not to look up again.

“Sourwolf versus…”

He can hear the slight blip of anxiety in his tone before Stiles easily erases it, transforming the edge in his words with ease.

“-Blondie. Sourwolf versus Blondie,” he repeats.

And when he looks up again, Stiles is staring straight back at him.  
  
  
  


The crowd is much bigger for his fight with Blondie, and he flexes his hands experimentally as the mob of humans surrounding the pit stamp their feet in preparation. The Arena seems different tonight, and Blondie is openly flirtatious, flipping her hair and curling her full lips in a knowing smirk as she struts across the dirt, already shifted and ready to fight.

He keeps his gaze on the floor, as his nostrils are swamped by the sweetly intoxicating perfume of her scent, heady with feminine allure and tainted with her unmasked attraction. There’s a different tension in the air tonight, and he is certain it’s because of Blondie, of the presence of a woman in the pit, in the promise of a battle of sexes. The air is charged with a thick type of sexual tension between the crowd and the female werewolf, and the promise of the fight between them. The provocative presence of the female seems to do something different to the emotions of the humans in the Arena that he’s never witnessed before, and it’s powerful when the awareness washes over his skin.

It’s stifling, and too much to be inflicted on his unprepared senses, and the alpha is unsettled by it, avoiding her seductive gaze and dropping silently into a crouch to centre himself.

The bloodlust is easier to master, but this different degree of lust is imposing a violent tension in the usually steady set of his shoulders. He breathes, once, twice, in and out, shallow breaths that only distantly taste the pungent aroma drifting about the stands.

Blondie blows kisses to the crowd and sways her hips in a sultry manner, and the lust in the humans increases instantly. He’s about to dig his claws into the flesh of his thigh to regain control when Stiles’ light, but surefooted steps, reach his ears as he breezes past.

He’s passing by, closer than he’s ever been to him in the pit before, and the alpha takes a deep breath, inclines his head towards the beating of Stiles’ heart, inhaling deeply as he plunges into the familiar scent. The exposure brings him into alertness, and he watches the ground, heart steady and matching the pace of the man walking toward the podium.

He even spots the girl Pup has been rambling on about for weeks, sitting in the same spot that he says she always sits in, right next to Princess, dark curls framing her face as she bites her nails in anxiety which he can feel from several metres away.

He can also smell the faintest trace of Pup, and figures the werewolf has been slowly bathing her in his scent without her knowledge. Pup hasn’t worked up the courage to even speak to her yet, despite The Captain’s mockery or the Princess' insistence at introducing them.

“Damn,” Stiles purrs out, and the alpha feels the words ripple over him soothingly, giving him purchase in the confusion of overwhelming human emotion. “Look at that, my friends we’ve got a battle of the sexes coming up right now, between our very own Sourwolf and the lovely Blondie. Equality eat your heart out!”

The crowd roars its agreement, another wave of tension slamming into him, and he closes his eyes against it, listening to the only thing that matters in the pit. The sound of Stiles as his voice rumbles tantalisingly through the microphone. Hairs erupt on the back of his neck and gooseflesh rises at the echo as he starts the shift, teeth extending past his lips and curling into a growl.

Blondie is smirking, and he knows she’s realised the crowd is affecting him more than he’s ever been affected by it before. He can see the instinct encouraging her to press the advantage, but an alpha isn’t just going to roll over and he's readying himself for a fight for dominance.

“Jesus, you could cut the tension with a knife here, folks,” Stiles announces but he tips his fingers in their direction, the silent green light before he’s ringing the bell announcing the beginning of the fight.

The object is to keep the other down for more than ten seconds, but Blondie is faster than he expects, dancing out of the lunge of his arms and slashing powerfully across his back. Pain erupts briefly across his skin and he howls, rolling with the force of the blow and regaining his footing as he spins back to face her quickly learning from his mistake.

Blondie’s already running at him again, giving him seconds to twist swiftly out of her oncoming path, seizing the back of her head to propel her into the concrete wall of the circular pit. She kicks her feet up to meet it, using the momentum to flip off of the wall, performing a somersault before finding her feet again.

They are evenly matched, but the alpha’s learning her movements quickly, drinking in Stiles’ distant commentary as they dance around each other, only creating minor wounds that heal almost instantly. The crowd is screaming for a victor, pounding fists, and stamping feet, catcalls and jeers swarming around them. It's difficult to keep fighting at such an increased pace, and eventually she’s not fast enough, moving in for a punch to his ribs and not getting herself clear of his reach in time. His claws clamp down on her upper arm and spins her back into his grip.

She twists, bending low with a snarl of rage, kicking out at the back of his knee so that he staggers forward. He doesn’t release her, tossing her body like a ragdoll against the dirt, and seizing an ankle and dragging her back down towards him so she can’t dart away again.

The crowd screams of approval increase, as the match appears to be coming to a close, but he’s not quick enough to secure her other leg and she’s winding it around his hip, using the momentum to pull her up off of the ground as he lurches back to his feet, taking her slight form with him.

He’s got her completely now, she’s trapped in his grip, and he leans forward to grab her arms and pin them behind her back, instinct ignoring the sudden intimacy of their intertwined bodies and then her eyes dart furiously around them, thinking and re-evaluating the situation, before she slams her mouth over his.

It’s meant to surprise him, an underhanded way to drive him to distraction, and it works when she forces her tongue into his unguarded mouth. Stiles’ gasp of shock reverberates in his ears, and he wrenches his mouth away, releasing his grip and tossing her to the ground in disgust.

She scrambles to her feet, saved by the devastating response from the crowd, as they whistle out their appreciation and the strength of the crowd’s passion increases, slicing through his focus and derailing his wits. Stiles has gone uncharacteristically silent, speechless for several seconds until he recovers his shock.

“Well, what do you know, love on the battlefield, folks,” he says, voice uncommonly strained, the ensuing lengthy convalescence enough to prove he’d been shaken, but he quickly finds his second wind and resumes speaking.

Just as Blondie leaps at the alpha's chest, tackling into him, not possessing enough body fat to do more than force him to take several steps back. He growls out his frustration, easily dislodging her, but still infuriated that she could be so underhanded as to utilise the crowds desire for sex to defeat him.

He slams her down into the dirt, ready to end this already, pressing his knee into her back and pinning her there, securing her wrists in his immovable grip. The crowd immediately starts counting, the chant burning into his skull and rattling through his empty thoughts, drenched in the animal instincts of reasserting his alpha dominance.

She struggles, trying to buck him off, but he has too much weight on her and she’s restrained like a butterfly pinned to a display. The count runs down and with a snarl of rage he releases her, the noise a warning to never attempt anything like that ever again.

He storms off to his corner of the pit and remains there, fuming until Stiles has finished sending the crowd packing from the Arena. He ignores the drunken comments that are shouted at him, and focuses on his breathing instead.

Blondie twirls past him like a temptress, purposely blowing the fragrance of her skin in his direction, and he’s growling again before she’s being led away by two Pit Guards. Stiles is already walking ahead, Guard in tow and his heart skips a jerky beat, while his feet slam against the cool stone, interrupting the silence as he follows after him.

“That looked like fun,” Stiles says, but his voice has no friendly edge to it, no hint of hidden mischief and the alpha frowns in confusion, but says nothing, only watches the lines of tension in Stiles’ posture as if he might trace the with his claws.

“My God, do you ever say anything?” he explodes out suddenly, hands wrenching outwards in a wide arch of violent anger, and he storms away before the alpha can smell what that spike in his scent means.  
  
  
  


Stiles doesn’t attempt to guess his name or speak to him for several days, and he does not pine or mope around any more than usual, though he is definitely grouchier. Blondie doesn’t bother apologising for her actions, and he respects the intelligence behind it, since her attempt to outwit him by overpowering his senses had very nearly worked.

Her popularity had peaked and demands for another match between them have become so frequent that Sheriff actually calls him into his office. The alpha is given his first sighting of Stiles in days, and he is swept away in dousing himself in his scent. He'd been going crazy without it, reduced to listening in on Stiles speaking to other people, just to hear the sound of his voice.

“Sourwolf?” Sheriff asks looking at him oddly. “Did you hear what I said?”

He blinks at the man, and Sheriff rolls his eyes. “Would you be willing to have another fighting match with Blondie?”

The alpha turns and walks out of the room without a word, his ears picking up the sound of their voices.

“That’d be a no,” he hears Sheriff say with a sigh. “Dammit, that match could have raked in the cash.”

“Dad you need to put her up against The Captain,” Stiles urges. “They both hate to lose and they’ll play dirty to get it. The crowd will love it.”

Sheriff grunts, but the alpha knows that Stiles has convinced him and he continues walking, heart speeding up at the sound of light, approaching footsteps when Stiles follows after him.

“Paul, right?” he calls after him and the alpha nearly smiles.

“No, didn’t think so,” he says as he hurries to reach his side. “Steve? You could be a Steve.”

The alpha smirks and rolls his eyes. “Max, then. C’mon, Maximillion? How is that not your name?”

He only shakes his head. “Oh, c’mon Sourwolf give me a hint.”

He’s too eager when he moves towards him, too fast and too forceful after not touching someone like this for so long. He doesn’t quite remember how not to hurt with his hands, and Stiles immediately backs off until he hits the wall, scent spiking in fear and heart thundering like a frightened rabbit in his ears. The alpha leans forward, pressing a finger to Stile’s heaving chest, and very gently draws a line straight down curving to connect the two ends in a semi circle, spelling out a letter.

“D?” Stiles asks frustrated and curious. “You’re name starts with a D?”

He doesn’t answer, but he leaves Stiles alone in the hallway to contemplate his message.  
  
  
  


His next match is a mistake. He knows it from the second he enters the ring, from the unnatural scent coming from the dark wolf in the pit. It recognises briefly that he is an alpha, but its concern seems to be with the warm bodies in the stand above and the best way to reach them all, scenting the air hungrily.

He frowns when Stiles emerges, and walks towards the podium, growling out a warning when the wolf tips its snout in his direction with unmasked interest. The alpha growls again, deeper more inhuman and the wolf turns back towards him, tongue lolling, eyes senseless and teetering on the edge of something completely unfocused.

It isn’t until he does nothing to incite the wolf’s rage, but it howls monstrously and attacks without warning, that he accepts that something is truly wrong. He rushes forward to meet it, as the distinct sound of Stiles cursing echoes through the Arena as his shifts, barrelling into the animals side, and the force of the collision shoves it towards the ground.

It isn’t until it extends its neck at a distorted angle, snapping its jaws desperately at air in an attempt to find purchase on any inch of his flesh that he realises it's rabid.

And then the crowd seems to realise it too.

“It’s gone rabid!” someone yells above the cheers.

“Rabies!” a woman shrieks, and those in the closest row of the stands are scrambling back in case the wolf can spectacularly jump ten metres into the air. The wolf is coming back for another round, snarling incomprehensibly before he ducks under its open jaws and aims his claws for the soft flesh of its neck. He wounds it, but not deep enough to kill and the wolf quickly loses interest in the alpha.

And sets its sight on Stiles standing on the podium trapped in the pit with them. Sheriff always insisted on raising it higher to make it safer for the MC, but he’d never gotten around to it and the alpha wishes more than anything that he had now.

Stiles says a particularly bad word, and then the wolf is bounding up the steps towards him, but he jerks back swiftly, flips easily over the barrier. A woman screams, but Stiles is already on his feet back into the pit and the alpha seizes the flank of the rabid wolf as it attempts to leap off the podium after him.

He severs an artery in its leg as he attempts to latch his claws into its fur, and the blood spurts wildly onto his face and into his eyes and his grip slips as the wolf wriggles free, desperately seeking the mouth-watering warmth of the rapidly beating heart below.

Stiles is sprinting towards the pit's gate, but its locked and despite the two guards working frantically at the chains the alpha knows they won't be quick enough. Fear, actual fear wells up inside him at the thought of Stiles in danger.

He roars, launching himself from the podium with inhuman strength, bearing down on the rabid wolf in seconds, vision turning red as he seizes it from behind, claws digging into the tender area beneath its jaw and yanking it back against his chest, inches away from tearing into Stiles’ throat.

His claws shred into the meaty flesh of its neck, and with a howl of outrage he separates the wolf’s head from its body, spattering Stiles and himself with blood and flesh. The wolf makes a strange gurgling sound and draws it last breath before slumping uselessly in his arms.

The crowd is screaming, half in excitement half in terror and he can only smell the unnatural rotting smell of the wolf’s deteriorated brain mixed with Stiles’ terrified scent. He tosses the animal’s body to the side, wiping the flesh and blood snagged in his claws against his jeans calmly as the Arena erupts into chaos.

He doesn’t look him in the eye, until Stiles reaches forward cautiously, hesitantly pressing a finger against his chest before he curves a pattern through the blood. The alpha stops breathing but he looks down just as Stiles finishes his work and he sees the letter S that he’s drawn onto his naked flesh, smearing the blood around so that it seems comical.

When he looks up again, Stiles’ eyes are soft and surprisingly unguarded.

“Thank you,” he whispers quietly before making his way back to the podium to address the astounded, screaming masses, demanding to see the rabid wolf’s severed head.  
  
  
  


Sheriff offers him a pay rise, but he only shakes his head, quietly accepting the man's thanks as Stiles watches him intently from several metres away in the pit. The clean up crew needed to make sure the alpha wasn't bitten by the infected wolf and once he's been cleared they've started trying to clean up the mess of scattered wolf parts covering the pit floor. The rest of the werewolf fighters gather in the pit as well, drawn out by the sounds of MC's close call with the rabid wolf.

Stiles seems to have gotten over the alpha inflicting a violent end to the wolf right in front of his face, and is discussing something of interest with Pup who closely watches the very same woman he's been scenting, who Princess snuck into the pit with them. The woman watches him also, and with a roll of his eyes, Stiles pushes Pup in her direction. 

And then Sheriff notices that they're both still contaminated with rabid wolf remains, and sends them out of there to clean up. They go their seperate ways, but after the alpha finishes showering away the dirt and sweat and blood, Stiles soon reappears to deliver a message. He knows that he’s timed the meeting perfectly from the way Stiles' eyes catch, unrepentant on his naked chest as the alpha emerges from the showers, towel wrapped loosely around his waist.

“David?” he asks eyes lingering on his naked body, and the alpha can scent the desire thick in the air between them, as he eyes him hungrily. He watches carefully for any sign of refusal before he takes a guarded step towards him, knowing he’s offering a lot more of himself that he’s ever thought he could offer ever again and just how terrifying that is.

Stiles’ mouth has fallen open invitingly, and his heart is beating wildly in his chest. The alpha sighs at the sound, presses a hand over Stiles' heart to feel the life pound against his fingers, to reassure himself that it's still beating.

The sound increases at the touch, and Stiles steps closer still, licking his lips and looking into his face. “Daniel? Darryl?” he whispers lowly in his throat, the hitch in his breath encouraging.

The alpha lets out a suppressed groan, and buries his fingers into the back of Stiles' still wet hair, covering his mouth with his own. He drinks him in, pressing their bodies closer together, heart rate climbing when Stiles’ questing hands make quick work of his towel, dropping it to the floor.

“Derek,” he finally rasps out, voice odd sounding from misuse. “My name’s Derek.”

Stiles grins, presses his mouth against the shell of his ear and licks his lips again. “Derek,” he murmurs out softly, rolling the words over his tongue expertly so that the alpha can almost taste it himself, revealing Stiles knows how much he enjoys the sound of his voice. “Nice to meet you.”

And then he seals his mouth over Derek’s again.


	2. There Will Be Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well whadduya know. There IS another chapter. Guess this isn't much of a oneshot ;)
> 
> Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys just so I'm warning you there's a bit of an intense slightly dub con moment between our two fellas here. Of course if Derek hadn't wanted it to happen it wouldn't have happened but just in case this might trigger something I'm giving you the heads up. But I hope it doesn't!

# There Will Be Blood

#    


“Derek, Derek” Stiles gasps, flesh against flesh as he buries into the tight heat of his body. The alpha groans, jerking his hips and quickly losing himself in the sensation of Stiles, Stiles, _Stiles _as he fucks into him.__

His scent drives him mad, their intermingling scents satisfying him in a way he can’t explain, and doesn’t want to, sinking into it as deeply as he can.

Stiles is eagerly spread out beneath his hands, fingers twisting desperately, strongly, into his hair as he shifts in the alpha’s lap, the slightest tilt of his hips, drawing so many different sounds from his mouth. 

He is not used to trying to be quiet. It‘s always been a natural thing for him, instinctive, easy, but when he and Stiles are connected like this, he can’t think, can’t breathe.

And he can’t stop opening his mouth. Stiles seems to encourage it, rutting harder against him at each noise, rocking his erection against the unyielding muscle of the alpha’s stomach as he lowers himself back onto his cock.

The alpha hands slide across his hip until he reaches Stiles’ own leaking cock, and tugs gently, encircling him with the warmth of his fingers and working them down to the base. Stiles groans, and his grip in the alpha's hair tightens as he rocks into him. But he leans forward, pressing his mouth into the shell of his ear and the alpha’s grip goes taut.

He hears Stiles’ tongue as it darts out to lick his own lips and trembles, knowing instantly what he’s about to do. Stiles’ fingers tighten their grip at the base of his neck, and the warmth of his breath floods across the side of his face.

“Derek,” he purrs rolling the word off his tongue, testing it, worshiping it with his seductive voice. 

The alpha gasps, and thrusts up into the tight, blistering heat of his body one last time before he loses it, huffing out a groan against Stiles’ neck as he explodes into him. Stiles shudders with his orgasm, his own juices splashing across the alpha’s chest as he finishes, slumping against his chest with a sigh of deep, bone tired satisfaction.

They sit there, in the alpha’s quarters, sprawled across the small cot basking in the afterglow with nothing but the sounds of their heavy breathing.

After a while, Stiles wiggles his hips, and the alpha groans and attempts to still him against his sensitive flesh. He laughs and pulls off of him, the alpha watching his semen sliding out of Stiles’ hole with rapture. 

Stiles doesn’t bother to cover up, but swats at his hands when he reaches for him again. 

“Derek,” he says with a cheeky laugh. “I’m supposed to be in a meeting with my Dad. We’re meant to be finding a new seller. You know after the last one sold us a rabid wolf that tried to eat me?”

He snarls at the memory, and crowds Stiles against the nearest wall, fingers biting deeply into the soft flesh, claiming, at the mention of the rabid wolf. He scents the spark of arousal, and a deep satisfied rumble echoes within his chest as his mouth slams onto Stiles’ again.

Stiles tries to speak around his lips, but the alpha pushes harder, forcing his tongue against his mouth until it opens willingly for him.

Only for him.

He can feel himself stirring again, and Stiles pulls away.

“No,” he says with a grin. “Later, okay? Dad’s already pretty pissed about Princess and The Captain. Plus he already suspects something’s going on between us.”

It takes him a second to pull away. Probably because he can touch, finally touch every inch of the man in front of him, and he has waited and wanted for too long to resist taking certain liberties.

It’s so much harder to be around him now in front of the other werewolves, pretending not to want what he wants. He growls in frustration but releases him, kissing softly against his mouth as an unspoken promise for later.

Stiles smirks at him, and he tries to quench the tightening in his chest. “See you in the Arena, baby,” he says before trouncing out the door, blowing a kiss in his direction.

The alpha scowls at his departure, and scratches his claws against the wall, irritated. It’s become a necessary thing lately with his emotions so out of control.

The walls of his quarters are riddled with the deep gouges of his powerful claws, the intermittent sense of desperation lingering in the stone. But Stiles scent is everywhere and he settles into it without a word and inhales deeply, drawing him into his lungs.

And waits.

  
  
  
The crowd is restless tonight. They haven’t forgiven the rabid wolf incident just yet despite no one being harmed. The alpha would've thought they'd love the threat of danger and death, but there are less humans filling the stands than before.

The mistake has hurt them. And it has only incensed the crowd’s desire for blood. He waits in his usual position, head bowed and finding an anchor in the chaos. He is calm, but distracted by the approaching familiar footsteps.

Stiles walks stupidly, dangerously, close to him and he wonders if he actually wants Sheriff to know what’s going on between them. Even if the rest of the werewolves already do.

The Captain had clapped him on the back the other day without any warning and he’d nearly thrown him through the nearest wall, before he realised it wasn’t a threatening gesture. Pup gave him a thumbs up from several seats away, and The Fugitive only rolled his eyes. Enigma smirked and Blondie looked pissed.

The alpha had tried not to smile. Because they can smell _exactly _what’s been going on between them. He’s been bathing Stiles with his scent every opportunity he has alone with him.__

His eyes widen briefly as familiar fingers pinch his ass, and he tries not to react, growling softly at Stiles’ innocently retreating figure as he makes his way to the podium.

Sheriff had a newer version installed so that it’s higher than before. And safer. He can breathe easier without the niggling sense of worry clouding his thoughts. Stiles will be fine there.

They also don’t release his opponent until Stiles is safely standing on the podium now, which means it takes much longer to twist the animal to his will.

Stiles revels in the challenge and accepts the extra time needed for preparation easily, and the alpha loses himself in his voice as MC distracts the crowd. They release two beta wolves into the pit with him and it’s a risky move, too showy after the rabid wolf, but he can handle them even if the crowd is still wary. He crouches low after the signal from Stiles, and rests his eyes on them. The effect is almost instantaneous after the bell is rung, and he senses this is the effect of the different buyer Sheriff purchased the wolves from.

They look tougher, hardened from abuse and they attack him as one, their combined fury overwhelming him for a moment.

He goes down. _Hard. _The weight of their paws cutting deeply into his chest, Stiles’ nerves drift into his words, and only he can hear the hidden strain as he comments on the match. He recovers quickly, instantaneously, and slams the darker one into its kin mate and rolls fluidly to his feet.__

It’s fast and bloody. By the time he’s torn them both apart, he’s covered in varying degrees of his own warm blood and the sickening combination of their own. He wipes the sweat from his brow, and can smell Stiles’ reaction from the podium as his claws dig into the dirt in victory.

“There you have it, folks,” Stiles says smoothly, but he can hear the relief in his voice. “Another victory for Sourwolf. Can anybody stop this alpha?”

“Does that include hunters?”

He stills. No. Her voice twists into his bones and digs sharply into his flesh, tearing into his bloodstream. It's _her. ___

He looks up. And there she is, standing among the crowd a row behind Princess and the woman Pup is smitten over who Princess calls Snow. The Bitch.

Pup had finally worked up the courage to ask Snow out, and now her scent is drenched in his own, possessive, claiming, but still the alpha flinches at the manicured hand on her shoulder. He doesn’t know why The Bitch is touching Snow, but if Pup isn't aware of it, then they’re in trouble.

Stiles is looking at her in shock, as the crowd titters with excitement at the challenge. He doesn't wait for his reply, and snarls out an inhuman sound of demented rage. He races towards her, claws out, eyes bleeding red as he focuses solely on her smirking face. He reaches the wall of the pit, muscles tightening in preparation of the jump because he’s going to kill her.

He’s going to kill her right now in front of everybody, and then finally, it will be done.

But Stiles is suddenly there, eyes hard and dangerous, and his hand is outstretched, open palm to stop him. The alpha freezes and pins him to the wall, claws retracting just in time, crowding up against every inch of Stiles and pressing his face against his neck because he can’t see. All he can feel is rage, rage and the crowd’s fear, and the slick slide of satisfaction emanating from her, inches within his reach.

“It’s her,” he pants against the thrumming pulse of Stile’s throat. “It’s _her. _Itsheritsheritsher.”__

He can’t breathe, he can’t think. All he wants is her blood, wet and warm, running beneath his claws. Stiles pushes him down, violently, forcefully, and he collapses without protest under the feeling of his hands on him. Even in his crazed state, he trusts Stiles to move him, touch him and mould him into place. When he's satisfied, Stiles turns back towards the crowd. 

“Someone’s a little eager,” he jokes into the microphone, managing to sound amused despite the tension. Stiles steps away without a glance at the alpha, so he drops into a crouch, regaining control of himself and refusing to meet her gaze, knowing she’ll be smiling.

He wants to tear his own eyes out.

But instead he listens to Stiles as he makes his way back up to the podium he'd launched himself off to prevent the alpha from jumping into the crowd. His gut twists at the realisation.

“Is that a challenge, dear lady?” Stiles asks The Bitch, and he can hear her steady heart beat along with the rhythm of his own. He wants to stop his from beating for fear of them beating as one ever again. The thought sickens him to the core.

“It is,” The Bitch drawls. “The Argent’s would like a match with your little Sourwolf over there. Then we’ll see who’s undefeated. And who’s dead.”

He howls into the dirt, scraping his claws frantically as he struggles to control his shift as he quickly descends into the animal; a defence mechanism. He focuses on Stiles’ heartbeat and breathes in the scents of earth and sweat and blood.

And tries to reassemble himself again.

He can feel Stiles’ hesitation, but The Bitch has already challenged them publicly in their own Arena. There is nothing that can be done that won’t make them look weak. He has to say yes.

“You’re on,” he says, and the alpha bleeds red.

  
  
  
“What the hell was that?” Stiles demands when the crowd has gone home and he’s escorting him back to his quarters. He’d convinced Sheriff that Guards were unnecessary with the alpha now, but that was so they could fuck whenever they pleased, and now he misses the protection of their presence. At least then Stiles wouldn’t be talking about this.

“You know, I’d just convinced Dad you can be trusted with a bit more responsibility, and _this _is how you handle it?”__

He doesn’t answer, lets the heat of Stiles’ anger sink into his skin, branding it like melting steel and doesn’t meet his eyes. Stiles sighs, and the rage he can almost taste on his lips, cools swiftly.

“What were you saying back there?” he asks softly, gently probing. “When you tried to attack that woman?”

He moves towards his quarters and enters without even looking in his direction, nearly losing it at the welcoming scents of Stiles and his own mingled perfectly together. The tension settles in his shoulders and worms its way through his stomach, tearing into his intestines and making his head pound.

The alpha collapses onto the mattress without saying anything, dead inside and working through the motions of his body, not even caring about wiping the blood off his hands. He has enough blood on his hands already. He turns on his side, faces the wall and stays silent, listening to Stiles' heavy breathing.

He takes a step towards him, then seems to reconsider that and stops. “You said ‘It’s her,’” he asks quietly, soothingly and the alpha feels the tension in his shoulders ripple and settle into the softness of his voice. “What does that mean? You know her?”

He closes his eyes and prays for darkness, for Stiles to go away, for him to wrap his arms around him and hold on tight, to never let go.

Stiles lets go, and eventually leaves.

The alpha lies there in the silence, and slowly falls apart.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“Hey,” a voice cracks through his sleep, and he jerks into alertness, claws out and slashing before he realises the voice isn’t inside his room. 

But next door.

“Sourwolf, you and MC having a fight?” Pup asks, and the sound of a hand slapping skin interrupts him.

“Ow! Dammit, Cap!”

“Leave him alone,” The Captain growls. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

He closes his eyes again, and listens to them bicker because it’s familiar, a foundation that he can build on.

“But if I was fighting with Snow, I’d want to talk about it. I just wanna help, you know, because Snow says-”

The Captain snarls. “Stop talking about goddamn Snow, maybe you should start talking about how much you suck in the arena.”

“I don’t suck!” Pup cries. “I’m a werewolf badass.”

“Sure you are, buddy,” Stiles voice interrupts them and the alpha immediately tenses. “That’s why Enigma wiped the floor with you tonight.”

He sits up as Stiles walks into his quarters again, expression hard but not angry. He is confused by what he can’t sense from him. There’s no anger, no fear, no frustration. Nothing.

“Get up,” he snaps, voice hard, eyes narrowed. “You’re coming with me.”

He thinks Sheriff wants to see him, wants to demand why he tried to kill a human in the pit tonight, but he doesn’t react to Stiles’ behaviour and ducks his head, following him silently out of his quarters.

But Stiles doesn’t take him to Sheriff. He takes him down a different corridor, and he follows silently without comment, scenting the different air as they walk along, slipping so easily into each others company.

He pulls open a door suddenly, and pushes the alpha roughly through it. The strongest scent of Stiles that he’s ever been exposed to, save his own body, permeates the air, clinging to every inch of the space.

And he quickly realises he’s inside Stiles’ room. He turns to raise a questioning eyebrow, but Stiles pushes him down onto the bed without an explanation, free hand already working the buckle of his belt. The alpha swallows as he tastes Stiles' arousal.

He lands on his stomach, and tries to twist around to stare but Stiles’ hand is already at his neck, a gentle pressure holding him down. And he lets him.

“Don’t speak,” he whispers. “You need this. Let me take care of you.”

And he hears Stiles yank off his pants, listening to the excited beat of his heart. He’s tense, confused and feeling vulnerable in this position, but he trusts Stiles and he doesn’t protest when hands find their way to his own pants.

He lifts his hips to help Stiles remove them, surprised to find that he’s already hard. Stiles fingers drift nimbly over his skin, hesitating slightly over the blood he’s still covered in before drifting across the soft flesh of his ass.

He tenses, growls, muscles almost realigning in warning, and Stiles wraps a hand around his cock.

“Be quiet,” Stiles snaps and he falls silent as Stiles slowly pumps him, sliding painfully across his heated flesh, the roughness making his heart beat faster. He jerks into the friction, teeth sinking into his lips to keep silent before Stiles is suddenly spreading his cheeks.

He seizes up, unyielding and unwelcoming before he feels Stiles’ tongue against his entrance and shudders, collapsing onto his arms as he lets him into that intimate part of him. The anger, the fight, the consuming rage slips out of him, and the alpha goes boneless under Stiles' ministrations.

It several minutes before he realises that he’s torn through his lip with his fangs, and his blood drips slowly onto the sheets. But it heals just as quickly, and he keeps silent as Stiles tortures him with his mouth. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensation, his cock jerking shallowly against the mattress, seeking out something warm to bury itself into and a gasp escapes him when a finger suddenly works its way inside of him, slick and wet. The familiar scent of lubrication assaults his nostrils.

Stiles immediately stops, and he tries desperately to move against it. Because he does need this. He needs this so badly that he might die. 

“I said quiet,” he says and the alpha doesn’t make another sound before Stiles is working another finger inside him.

He’s straining against the feeling trying to get more, but Stiles seems to sense he’s trying to inflict the pain on himself and slows it down to gentle probing. He removes his fingers, and he nearly begs for it before Stiles returns them, slick and sliding readily into the heat of his own body. And then it’s just all heat, the stretch, the burn of it winding into him and setting him alight. 

Stiles preps him until he knows the alpha can’t keep silent any longer, and removes his fingers. The emptiness in his chest is just as hollow as the sense of Stiles’ loss.

And then Stiles’ hands are on his hips, shifting him readily into a better position and he’s sliding slowly into him.

He bites his wrist to keep silent as Stiles easily fills him, body accepting him into it’s heat without any protest and suddenly he’s everywhere. Stiles’ chest is pressed against his back as he waits, his thighs pressed against his own as he bottoms out inside him. He bites deeper, feels as if he tastes _bone _and his eyelids flutter with need. And then Stiles wraps a hand around him again, and he’s jerking forward helplessly, silently begging for Stile to start moving.__

And he does. Pulling at his hips and plunging deeper within him. It’s maddening. The scent of him is rolling over his skin in waves, and he can taste Stiles’ sweat and arousal on his tongue, making his balls feel tight and his hole clench around him.

Stiles groans, seemingly understanding that he won’t last long and takes the hand that’s not beneath his lips and interlocks their fingers together, linking them in the most simple way.

“Speak,” he pleads, thrusting into him and the alpha groans, working his hips back to meet him. _"Please." _He unclenches his jaw from around his wrist and lets go.__

“Stiles,” he cries, jerking when Stiles’ seed pulses into him, slicking up his insides and enriching his nose with the scent.

He comes with a shocked sound as if he doesn’t know what to think of this moment between them, and clenches around Stiles’ throbbing cock. There’s a wetness against his face, and he wipes at it expecting blood but his hands come away clear as water. He stills as Stiles attempts to slide out of him, but he reaches around and holds him there hesitantly.

Stiles seems to understand, and pulls them both into a more comfortable position, rolling them onto their sides. His fingers reach around to gently brush at his eyes and he knows that Stiles knew he was crying even when he didn’t. A breath shudders through him and he stays silent.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers softly kissing the sweaty skin of his shoulder. “If I was too rough. But you needed that.”

He touches his own face again, feels the tears still rolling sluggishly down his cheeks and knows Stiles is right. And he lies there shaking, whilst Stiles holds him.

  
  
  


  
  
  
When he wakes up tangled in Stiles’ arms, he quietly disentangles himself and leaves after pulling his pants back on. He makes his way to the showers ignoring the dried semen on his chest and the wet, aching feeling of Stiles’ come still inside him. He swallows heavily at the memory and quickly removes the evidence under the heated water, losing himself in it.

“What’s going on with you and my son?” Sheriff asks as he steps into the communal bathroom.

He’s dressed neatly as usual, a stark contrast to the alpha’s dirt, blood and semen coating every inch of his sweaty body. He makes no effort to cover himself and shrugs his shoulders, unconsciously touching his face again as if to make sure it’s unmarked by tears. He feels a little raw, weaker than he's ever felt before, but he's feeling everything. And for the first time, he welcomes it.

Sheriff doesn’t feel the need to give him privacy and he doesn’t request it, standing there silently as the evidence of the evening is slowly washed from his skin.

But the blood runs deeper.

“He trusts you a lot, you know,” Sheriff says finally. “And so do I. I trust you to protect him. And having to put himself between you, and whoever that woman was tonight was not protecting him.”

He drops his gaze because Sheriff is right. He can’t protect Stiles. He can’t protect anyone.

An animal has nothing to protect.

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
Sheriff calls a meeting the next day. He hasn’t seen Stiles since he left his room the night before, and the alpha’s breathing hitches when he climbs onto the table in food area, steps powerful and vigorous as he joins his father.

He remembers what if felt like to have Stiles inside him, and gooseflesh erupts across his skin and his claws extend past the flesh of his human hands and the flush of his face.

“Okay, listen up, MC’s gonna let you know what’s going down for the next match. As you all know, Sourwolf’s been called out by some hunters for a death match so-“

He looks down at his plate of untouched food, and digs his claws into the already destroyed- by his owns hands- table, tightening on the metal, feeling it hold him in place. The Bitch must die.

But not if Stiles might get hurt. 

Stiles takes over when Sheriff steps away. “Alright, listen up wolfies, here’s what’s up. The lineup has been scrapped in light of this new challenge, so here are your new opponents-“

He lets Stiles’ voice lull him into relinquishing his grip on the table, but he doesn’t really listen to his words, only the sense of them as the ripple across him. Enigma takes a seat beside him eventually. But he doesn’t look at him. “I know you’ve got a thing with MC,” he says deep voice drowning out Stiles’ own. “If you die in the pit. I’ll keep him safe. We all will.”

He smirks and glances pointedly at Blondie. Enigma grins. 

“Well, not Blondie, she’s a bitch,” he rectifies.

The alpha can feel the sincerity of his words so he nods at him, and Enigma jerks his head back in agreement, but his jaw still tightens in restrained rage at the thought. He is not going to die, he’s going to rip The Bitch into miniscule pieces and wet his claws with her blood until he’s swimming in it.

Stiles will never be alone.

Enigma returns to his own table with The Fugitive and Blondie who unwraps herself from The Fugitive and stalks towards him, the perfume of her skin choking him and stirring the air with its sickly, sweet fragrance. He tenses when she stops at his shoulder, and leans down towards him.

“I bet he enjoyed fucking you,” she whispers. “We’re all their pets, but you’re his favourite.”

He pushes her away from him roughly, and rises to his feet with a snarl, striding away as her words ring in his head like a sick poison.

  
  
  
He finds Stiles alone on his way back to his quarters, and doesn’t hesitate to slam his mouth over his, pressing him deeply into the wall. Stiles lets out a deep rumbling sound of appreciation, and gravitates towards him and the alpha's breath catches every time he reciprocates like this.

Stiles shouldn’t want him, but he does. He shouldn’t let the alpha anywhere near him, if he was smart, if he really knew, but he doesn’t. Stiles just digs his hands into his hair and presses them together.

Pulls them closer, and he can never draw away.

Not even if he wanted to.

  
  
  
The news has spread of the challenge and by the time the match comes around the Arena is full to capacity before any of the competitors even make their way into the pit. He waits for the earlier matches to pass, listening intently to Stiles as he walks him through every single one of them with his observations. Pup beats Blondie. The Captain beats The Fugitive, and Enigma kills the arctic wolf.

He waits for his turn.

And he’s ready, sharpening his claws on the walls of his room, making unrecognisable patterns as the sound grates his ears like nails on a chalkboard. He continues sharpening because it calms him, and listens to the sound of Stiles’ beating heart which pumps so loudly it’s as if he’s standing right in front of him.

The Guards lead him to the pit when it’s time, and he cracks his knuckles, loosening his shoulders as he strides towards the pit, towards redemption, towards his own forgiveness.

He needs this. This closure and he will only be satisfied with violence. And blood. Her blood, pooling in the dirt of the pit beneath his feet. He breathes in Stiles as he enters the pit, and it helps him find his centre, the place where nothing touches him but Stiles, his scent, his body, his voice.

The alpha loses himself so easily in him that it’s frightening. Stiles doesn’t greet him as he walks past him towards the podium, but his hand does curl possessively over the deep bruise he left on his hip days ago.

And he knows it’s a silent promise that they belong to each other and it sets his resolve. He will not die here.

“Here you have it folks, the final match of the evening between our undefeated Sourwolf, and if you’ll believe your eyes, one of the finest hunter families in the country, an Argent.”

The crowd thrums its approval and the excitement rolls over him as it undulates in rising strength. Stiles is driving them into a frenzy again without even lifting a finger. “This is a one time only fight, so you better hold on to your seats for the first ever death match between a hunter and alpha werewolf in our Arena. Trust me, this is going to be messy.”

He snorts and tosses his head as the shift jerks through him, quickly without theatrics this time and he knows he’s too eager, too full of his own bloodlust to concentrate. He focuses on Stiles’ voice as he introduces The Bitch to the pit, the gates sliding open loudly, gutturally as the rusted gates reveal a woman’s figure swathed in hunter gear.

He starts forward, poised on the balls of his feet but falls back, waiting for the bell, claws digging into the flesh of his thighs to keep himself still.

He doesn’t want to wait. He wants to commit murder.

“And here you go folks, your very own Hunter!”

The woman finally steps out but her steps aren’t as confident as he is expecting, and that’s what keeps him still as Stiles rings the bell. He waits, confused as she slips out of the shadows, revealing her face.

He stills, eyes widening and glancing immediately towards Stiles whose mouth is open in shock. He looks back into her nervous eyes, sees the reluctance there as the crowd eagerly screams for blood and tries not to let everything drop away beneath him.

Because it’s not The Bitch standing before him ready to die painfully, so painfully, at his hands that have been waiting years for this chance.

Oh no.

It’s _Snow. ___

And the alpha has to kill her.


	3. No Church In The Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I have been really terrible with updating at the moment... but apparently there's another chap to this and I've had it sitting around for a while doing nothing...
> 
> My bad.

# No Church In The Wild

#    
  


For a moment the world stops. Freezes like the earth has finally stopped turning. He stares at Snow and feels his chest tighten, like a dark monster has seized his heart beneath his ribs.

And the monster is squeezing.

He tries to keep his face blank. His eyes find Stiles’ and they stare at each other in pure, dumbfounded horror. A silent question. An accusation. Stiles’ breathing hitches, and the alpha can hear his panicked heart as it beats a frantic tune in his ears. 

He can’t say no. He knows that. It’s too late. The crowd is too big. Thousands of people screaming for a fight that was never meant to happen. If he doesn’t attack, they’ll riot. If he does… then they won’t let him stop at just restraining her until she is forced to submit.

There will be blood. Or else.

Fire burns in his lungs, blood pumps thickly in his veins and he blinks. The earth starts to turn. He lets out an empty, animal sound with no feeling behind it, no real emotion. No rage. No bloodlust. The crowd has enough of that to drench the stands in thick, rolling passion which swirls around them like a whirlpool, sucking him under. He looks into her eyes. And sees her. Really _sees _her. The resolve in her stance, to go down with honour, not fear or weakness. She’s ready to die.__

He charges towards her. 

Snow rushes to meet him, face hard, hair whipping wildly, devastatingly beautiful behind her, and the scent of her determination encourages him not to hesitate. And that's when the ground explodes. The dirt literally _erupts _outwards like a blast of dynamite rushing into his eyes, blinding him and forcing him backwards with the force of it.__

There’s soil everywhere and his senses are useless as the crowd lets out an outraged sound, cheated of their blood painting the ground red beneath them. He can hear Snow struggling to breathe through the rush of dirt and sand in her mouth, her choking is like a beacon announcing her presence, and he could easily reach out and sink his claws into her skin. But he’s choking as well, on the scent of soil and blood and Pup’s own scent lingers warmly, contentedly, on her sweaty skin; a silent declaration of his heart. Of his love for this human.

He does nothing.

And the window of opportunity closes as she drifts out of his grasp. He sinks lower where the soil rains down on his neck, pattering his skin like heavy droplets and tries to breathe in clean air. A strong hand wraps around his neck. He tenses briefly, but the thumb pushes into his muscles gently, an unconscious tenderness before Stiles’ scent drifts through the sensory overload of earth.

He lets himself be pulled backwards as another arm wraps around his bicep, pulling him harder. He keeps his eyes sealed shut as they water and sting from the flecks of sand and other particles that have twisted beneath his eyelids.

His chest is heaving, but he lets Stiles guide him, blind and senseless for the first time in his life. Vulnerable. The sand is no longer smooth and he stumbles, distractedly noting the craters beneath his feet as if they’ve been standing on a landmine. It doesn’t make sense. Guards patrol the pit regularly before the crowds even begin to enter the Arena. Nobody could have hidden explosives without anyone noticing. He would have smelt the explosive plastic.

He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know he’s being led toward the showers- his feet trace the path by memory. Stiles’ grip loosens out of the scrutiny of pit and the warmth of his hands soothes as his eyes burn. He knows it’s going to happen before Stiles sprays water in his face. He ignores the instinct to keep them shut and manages to wrench them open for a second, wincing as they flutter in attempt to protect his eyes.

It takes a few minutes, but with Stiles help he can see again although his eyes are tender and sensitive. Stiles’ expression is twisted, furious and the alpha’s fingers have tangled into the expensive suit his dons for the Arena, wrinkling it. He still doesn’t let go. The alpha stares at Stiles, and tries to gauge his emotions as he finally turns off the nozzle.

“What the hell happened?” Stiles bursts out eventually, wiping the excess dirt from his bare shoulder. He tingles at the touch and tightens his grip on Stiles’ clothing.

“A trick,” he snarls spitting out the dirt that found its way into his mouth. He releases Stiles to wipe the rest away.

A guttural howl interrupts the tense silence, and Stiles flinches in surprise whipping his head around, eyes wide. The alpha stills his floundering hands, and pulls him closer.

“Pup,” he explains burying his face into Stiles’ neck. He can hear as the wolf takes over completely, breaking free in desperate search of Snow. He can still hear the fluttering of her heart and knows Pup will find her. The Bitch hasn't harmed Snow, only tricked them both.

A second ticks by, and he ignores the sounds of the stamping of thousands of feet, the angry shouts of those upset with the result of the final match and the cries to sate the bloodlust. He sinks into the man in front of him and it helps the rage within him cool. He’s unsatisfied as well. The anger within him is bubbling like acid in the back of his throat with nowhere to go now that The Bitch has denied him her blood.

“You’re very talkative all of a sudden,” Stiles murmurs against him. “I think that was almost a sentence.”

He pulls back, but Stiles doesn’t let go and moves with him, sighing against his bare chest so that the heat of his breath creates gooseflesh. He’s so sensitive to everything that Stiles does to him. Even the simple things like this. And it kills him. He feels Stiles sigh against him.

"This is not going to be good for business.”

  
  
  
  
  


  
  
It’s not good for business. At all. Sheriff has to shut down for several days after it takes six hours to forcibly remove the displeased patrons. Protests start outside the Arena, and people start calling it the worst match of the year mostly as the only hint of fighting was between the wave of dirt that crashed over them. The press is unforgiving and it makes the front page. They lose nearly half their usual numbers. When things have finally settled down, Sheriff calls them both into his office.

“This has got to be the greatest fuck up since we matched Pup up against that mountain lion,” he says dropping into his chair with a bone tired sound of contentment. Sheriff reclines into it and sets his feet on the desk immediately, stretching himself out.

Stiles makes an agreeable sound and takes a seat across from him, pulling the alpha forward by his wrist. He lets himself be dragged forward, but keeps his eyes on the floor ready to accept the severity of his punishment. They don't mention his inability to attack Snow, and he's startled to realise that they don't blame him for the decision. He's here for a different reason altogether.

“And it's worse because now it looks like we’ve reneged on the deal. Our good faith looks like shit, and it’s not even our fault.”

He listens silently as they debate over the state of the business for several minutes until Sheriff reaches a decision. “You need to go into The Wild,” he says with hard eyes. “It’s the only way to get all of those people back into the goddamn stands.”

The alpha tenses as Stiles’ nods. Sheriff glances at him and Stiles tries to rise from his seat, but the alpha clamps a hand over his shoulder and forces him back down, message clear.

_You’re not going. ___

Stiles twists his head up to look at him. He raises an eyebrow at his hard expression, always curious, always getting himself into trouble. He growls.

“Of course, Sourwolf will go with you,” Sheriff adds with a knowing glance between them. Stiles knits his eyebrows together, eyes imploring. He can’t protest anything that Stiles wants, no matter how desperately he wants to. 

His hand unclamps from his shoulder.

  
  
  
  


  
  
The alpha makes a strangled sound as Stiles twists his hips with a smirk, altering the angle of his thrusts as he pistons into him.

He can’t think properly inside Stiles like this, the breathless sounds from the man beneath him, stunning every inch of his senses like a thousand electroshocks. He grunts out a heavy breath as he pins one of Stiles’ arms above his head, needing to feel his hand as he interlocks their fingers. Stiles stutters out a tight breath as if he’s just as affected, pulling him closer, sliding their mouths against each other as their limbs tangle, locking together. He finds himself cradling Stiles’ head with his other arm, muscles bulging as rakes his fingers across his spiky hair.

Stiles breaks his mouth away to let out a shallow groan when he slows the pace, fucking into him shallowly, teasingly like he’s trying to draw this out further. Because he is. The Wild is dangerous. He doesn’t want to risk not having done this one last time before they go there together.

He knows why Sheriff gave him permission to accompany Stiles. He's got the biggest reputation in the Pit, and he'd make the perfect bodyguard. He'd rather die than let anything bad happen to Stiles.

The all know it, and the realisation is heady, powerful and it frightens him in ways he can’t understand. So he fucks harder and focuses on the noises escaping Stiles’ throat, not the tightening in his chest as he stares down at his flushed face.

  
  
  
  
  


  
  
Stiles insists on walking there. It’s not exactly safe for him, but he knows that he can protect Stiles from any danger, so he lets himself be dragged through the city without any protest.

It takes nearly half an hour to get there, but he doesn’t mind stretching his limbs, soaking up the sunshine with Stiles by his side as the bustling city washes over them. Stiles doesn’t talk very much on the way there, but he doesn’t seem afraid, his heart beats steadily as they walk, heartbeat fluctuating only when Derek grips his elbow, brushes his hip or touches his thigh to nudge him in the right direction.

Every reaction pleases the wolf immensely, and he has to resist pulling Stiles into a nearby alleyway so he can push him up against the wall and finish what he's started.

Stiles is subdued, determined to do anything to save his father’s business. He swallows heavily when he scents the spike in Stiles’ emotion, the telltale flush in his cheeks that proves Stiles is thinking the exact same thing as he is but he struggles to clear his head and remain focused. 

The Wild is not known for its friendly atmosphere. And when he encourages Stiles inside the abandoned factory outlet, they are met with suspicious and haughty eyes. Nothing but festering greed, and a sense of ruthlessness greets them.

He stares each of them down, lets the wolf rush to the surface so that it can be seen in his eyes. He pulls Stiles closer, movements possessive and claiming.

_Mine _he wants to growl. Instead, he keeps Stiles' warm body close and remains vigilant, more animal than human as he tenses for any possible threats. Stiles makes a soft calming noise in the back of his throat, and his fingers cling to the edge of the alpha’s shirt, almost restraining, but not quite. He's not shirtless for once and the cloth they've dressed him in seems to irritate his skin.__

They make their way towards where the man they want to do business with is known to frequent. He’s so close to Stiles that his chest is nearly pressing against his back as he follows him. But from the way Stiles’ heart is beating, he suspects he doesn’t resent this invasion of personal space.

He struggles to keep his claws retracted, but his presence is as much as a deterrent as he could have hoped for. Human self preservation usually overrides anything else. These people have seen him in the Arena, and he knows they won’t mess with him. 

Stiles on the other hand…

He’s the perfect target. Soft, breakable, flesh and bone. Human.

The man Stiles is meeting, calls himself Wolfsbane and he’s the best procurer of strange beasts and animals in the area. He is the one who will bring the crowds back to the Arena. As soon as Stiles opens his mouth, the alpha knows that this will be over quickly. He’s in his element as he barters with the man, easily lowering his prices manipulating him so skilfully that it’s stunning. It takes him less than two minutes. And then he goes in for the kill.

“I hear you have a Kanima,” Stiles offers easily with no pretence after he's reduced Wolfsbane into something pliable. “I want it.”

Derek tenses. He’s heard of Kanima’s, and nothing about them sounds good. He knows The Captain used to be one, before the wolf took over. The story is whispered about the Arena frequently, and even now he can still sense the underlying essence of danger beneath The Captain's skin long passed.

A Kanima will bring the crowds, no doubt. But he isn’t sure he wants something so risky. Kanima’s are made to be controlled and they don’t easily change hands without blood drenching them. He suspects Sheriff wouldn’t approve of this. This has Stiles written all over it. He growls softly in the back of his throat, but Stiles ignores him, pushes him back, away.

It hurts more than he’d care to admit, but he backs off, goes to step away, but Stiles’ fingers are already locked around the belt loops of his jeans as if he knows what he’s trying to do without even turning to look at him. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to, and they exchange a significant look.

Wolfsbane watches with a mixture of a scowl and a smirk as they stare at each other. He knows Stiles won’t back down, he’ll do anything to protect his family, his father, the business. He falls silent, knows when he’s beaten.

Stiles turns back to Wolfsbane.

“Sourwolf isn’t a fan of lizards,” he explains smoothly, mask slipping into a calm, collected expression. He’s detached, but confident, and Wolfsbane is almost as wrapped around his finger as the alpha is.

He agrees after some half hearted haggling because even Wolfsbane can recognise a silver tongue when it's murmuring softly in his ear, and Stiles soon withdraws the proper money, sliding it across the table. Wolfsbane offers delivery, but Stiles’ basically wrangles it out of him. He appears reluctant to be transporting the Kanima anywhere, and the alpha understands the feeling with a creature so dangerous. So wild. A true monster.

This is a bad idea.

Sheriff is going to kill him.

The deal is set, and Stiles seems satisfied with the agreement. When he turns to leave however, it appears other people are not as pleased.

“That fight was bullshit,” a man nearby calls out, hand reaching out to seize Stiles’ shoulder, but he's scowling in the alpha's direction. “You didn’t even kill the hunter bitch. Biggest fucking tease. How the hell are you meant to kill a Kanima?”

He hears it in Stiles’ heartbeat before it’s in his voice. “Like this,” Stiles drawls calmly, head cocked to the side, open invitation for Derek to make a move.

So he does.

He crushes the bones in the hand that touched Stiles, ignoring the shriek of pain as the man attempts to jerk away. The alpha’s claws extend and he pushes the man from him in disgust.

“You don’t touch him,” he snarls fangs poking into his bottom lip as he gives the man a demented smile, hearing the thud of his heartbeat; the scent of fear in the air.

The man retreats, muttered curses echoing behind him. Stiles nods in satisfaction, and turns to address the rest of the people in The Wild who are staring at them incomprehensibly.

“Anyone else have a problem with the Arena or Sourwolf?” he demands, the power of his voice rolling over them in waves of authority and unwavering confidence.

No one speaks. Stiles shrugs, the picture of unconcern and walks out of The Wild, the alpha following in his wake. Nobody gives them any trouble after that.

  
  
  
  


  
  
Stiles is breathing heavily by the time they make it back to the Arena.

“God, I’ll be happy to never go there again,” he mutters as they walk towards Sheriff’s office. “They looked like they wanted to eat us. No wonder they call it The Wild. They’re probably a bunch of freaking cannibals.”

He listens curiously to the flutter of Stiles’ heart as he tries to calm himself. His fingers reach out for his neck, rubbing softly with his thumb until Stiles’ heart beats faster for different reasons.

“I know you’re not happy about this,” Stiles continues. “But we need the numbers and a Kanima will bring the crowds back. God, we need really this Derek or we’re going to go broke.”

He jerks his shoulders in response because he understands why Stiles is doing this, but he still doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all. If it was his decision Stiles would be nowhere near the Arena or werewolves. He’d be safe.

“C’mon,” Stiles says and startles him by slipping the warmth of his hand into his own. The alpha holds onto it like a lifeline, keeping him tethered to reality. 

“Let’s go tell my Dad what I’ve done.”

Stiles pulls him forward, and it doesn’t matter where they’re going, or what he’s going to fight in the Arena, or how easily Stiles has tamed the wolf in him, claimed it.

He follows.

Stiles doesn't bother to knock and barges straight into Sheriff's office, only pausing when he realises it's already occupied with a client who's standing before Sheriff with his back to them. Sheriff spots his son and rolls his eyes at his lack of manners, and waves a steady hand in greeting. The alpha slows his stance, something familiar in the set of the man's shoulders, the hint of his scent.

He frowns in confusion as the man turns at the sound of their arrival.

It's Peter. He's found him.

The alpha doesn't think. He lunges for his throat.


End file.
